


Aphelion

by listlessness



Series: Apsis [2]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, heavily stylised writing, mildly melancholy, poetry inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listlessness/pseuds/listlessness
Summary: /apˈhiːlɪən/nounthe point in the orbit of an object at which it is furthest from the sun*time passes and alexanderdoesn't forget johnand he doesn't writebecause it keeps the time between them all the closer(or so he tells himself)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Apsis [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052657
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Aphelion

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written for a project I have since stepped back from.
> 
> A companion fic for [Perihelion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024101). Both fics are intended to be read as existing somewhere between the Hamilton musical verse and the historical events.

1.  
eliza is the one to tell him, though alexander suspects what news she's there to bring before he even looks at her  
he feels it in his bones  
he's always felt bad news in his bones, ever since the fever had him as a child and a deal was made to save his life and take his mother's  
  
(you don't get that close to death without learning to look for the signs)  
  
alexander will never forget the wood grain or the blot of ink on paper or the melody he held in his head that day without associating any of it with laurens  
he'll play the scene back later  
and wonder if he could have said something to stop those words coming from her mouth  
or if he could have responded in another manner  
and if he had, would his life had gone down a different path  
  
it's easier to not think that way  
life, he has learnt, is easier to deal with if he keeps marching forward  
and never looks back  
time never looks back, and nor should he  
  
  
2.  
he waits for the invitation to arrive for him to speak at his funeral  
alexander is sure it will arrive  
he is certain of it  
they're each other's closest friends that still live on the continent, and so alexander waits  
  
and waits  
and waits  
  
something that is foreign and strange and chokes him  
  
he will talk about laurens when the invite arrives, and the words will come, and he will let his pen run free  
the words that have been stuck inside his throat and unformed in his mouth will spill like ink on paper  
like the stain that had been formed on the letter he had been writing when eliza filled the doorway  
  
but the invite never comes  
and instead he receives a letter informing him that laurens has been buried temporarily in one location  
and then reinterred by his father at his home  
alexander doesn't find out the first piece of information until weeks after his death, and the second letter doesn't arrive until month after his final burial  
  
so he keeps the words to himself  
and purses his lips when eliza asks  
and bites him tongue when washington asks  
and chews on his cheek when nathanael asks  
and he waits for the words to wither and die so they don't hurt quite as much as they used to  
  
  
though he knows that day will never truly come  
because ink never truly comes out  
  
  
3.  
they ask him to write of laurens  
they beg him to share memories  
tell his story, spread his name, speak of him because everyone misses him so  
and he refuses to write, because writing comes so easily and putting them to ink will reveal too much  
so he talks in half-sentences  
and he sticks to names that aren't his  
and of places they shared with others  
his favourite collective memories  
  
like the time the marquis reenacted his first voyage to america and they all laughed until tears stung their eyes  
or the night washington allowed himself a night's reprieve from duty and cracked his first joke  
or the time when someone (maybe lee) found a dead man's shoes and was convinced he had lost his own feet  
(cold and hunger or thirst did strange things to the mind)  
  
alexander did not tell  
  
of the first time john took his hand, under the table at the bar  
of the first time he kissed him, with all the nerves of a young boy and the practice of a young man  
of the first time he awoke with his head upon john's lap and a sunrise on his face  
of the first time they shared a bed and it had felt like the most natural thing in the world  
of the first time alexander accepted within himself what he felt  
  
alexander did not share  
  
how john laughed, with his head back and hands thrown by his face  
how john attempted to braid his hair one evening and wound up knotting it so bad alexander was forced to use scissors upon it (and how he kept it after, tied with a ribbon)  
how john would whisper in his ear, every night and every morning  
how john always put his left shoe on before the right, and that he believed to do otherwise would be unlucky, and how alexander feared that maybe, maybe, maybe he had done just that his last day  
  
alexander did not divulge  
  
that he missed him  
that he ached for him  
that he hungered for him  
that he longed over him  
that he pined for him even now, and likely always would  
  
to reveal that would be to reveal everything, and he couldn't have that, he couldn't allow that  
so he didn't  
  
  
4.  
years ago  
  
there had been a lull in the fighting and alexander had been recovering from a bout of seasonal malaria  
(a recurrent illness that plagued him at least once every two years)  
when john announced they should take some time away from camp  
and they should go that day  
before they (alexander) talked them (john) out of it  
just out of town, just to a nearby field, where farmers declared the forest line neutral land  
  
alexander had disputed it, as he was wont to do  
  
there were letters to write  
and munitions to count  
there were soldiers to train  
and accounts to settle  
there were orders to follow  
and negotiations to deliver  
  
john had laughed at each protestation and asked him if washington were capable of tying his own shoes without hamilton presen  
and alexander, bristling, had said if washington felt he couldn't then he would trust the general at his word  
(because alexander, above all, liked being difficult)  
with that, john had kissed him  
and they spent the day away from camp  
  
john had always found the most succinct way of having alexander agree with him, to fold to him  
he'd bend to his will, with complaints and protests and arguments spilling from his lips, until they were replaced with kisses and promises and idealisations of their future  
  
alexander liked thinking of their future  
even if he knew then it would never come to be 

  
  
5.  
years ago  
  
alexander kissed john for the first time  
though he can't remember it wholly now (though he remembered each time thereafter)  
what he remembers most is that he tasted of whiskey and he tasted of smoke and he tasted of  
the rush of battle and dirt and shock and loss and life  
and john didn't respond  
because he was more stunned to be alive than the simple mortality of being kissed  
  
the first time john kissed him back (which happened some weeks later)  
which also happened to be the second time they'd ever kissed  
he tasted of nerves and he tasted of anxiety and he tasted of hope and wishes and a future that could possibly involve both of them  
and every time he kissed john thereafter, he swore the future became brighter and bigger and real  
  
kissing john was like kissing summer  
warm and bright, with the sun refusing to set on them  
alexander can still smell the grass on which they lay and the scent of the pollen that clung to their uniforms  
the prickle of grass seeds would send him back in time to heady days where his head lay on john's chest  
the hum of bumblebees and the chirp of songbirds had him clinging to john's hand once more  
  
and the turn of winter now has him living day in and day out without him  
the kiss of snow upon his lips melts away like oh so many memories that have begun to slip away from him  
with a frost in the air that chills him and brings upon a fear that he will forget things  
like the exact colour of john's eyes  
or the different shade in his hair when it was burned by the summer sun  
or the precise number of freckles that dotted his nose  
and the dimple that would appear in his chin when he smiled  
and alexander fears he will one day forget the way he spoke and those final memories that he plays over and over and over will disappear with the setting sun  
  
  
6.  
alexander writes  
  
when all else failed, he always writes  
  
and he writes with his final letters (something he would never learn that burr also did) a request for his beloved eliza to burn all that had been entwined in the ribbon if he failed to return home that morning  
  
he writes about john  
and the words he has held back over the years  
and the words he has withheld in those heady summer days  
and the words he has thought would never be uttered  
which have been kept inside until he thought he'd never find a way to bring them out  
  
he counts the freckles he can remember (seventeen on his nose alone)  
he counts the times they kissed (every stolen moment behind the stables, he's sure of it)  
he counts the number of _i love yous_ (every morning and every evening, always in his right ear)  
he counts the days since laurens died (seven thousand nine hundred and eighty nine)  
  
and he wonders if this is it  
if this is the end  
and if there could ever be more  
  
he writes down all the things he couldn't say  
and all the things he wanted to say|  
and all the things he promised to say  
  
words that have built up over the years, from the first meeting to their last  
and all the days thereafter  
of eliza and of his children and of their great nation, built upon their backs with bloodshed and sweat and tears  
so many tears  
and all his hopes for the future  
for eliza and for his children and for their great nation, and all those who will live in it  
people like them, people who loved like them, with their lives ripped in twain by duty and honour and hope  
  
and he writes  
and writes  
and writes  
  
until his wrist throbs and his hand is stained and his fingers streak the paper  
and the summer sun threatens just below the horizon  
looming like a blackened promise  
and his pen scratches _my dear, laurens,  
  
_ and he stops  
for there is nothing left to say  
  
as he knows he'll see him soon  
  
and he won't need to write any more 


End file.
